Salvation
by CheshireCity
Summary: After being cornered one day, young Francis recalls his traumatic experience. Who comes to save him? Fluff, hurt-comfort. Implied noncon.


Originally, this was a fill for the LiveJournal kink meme. You can find it on Part 13, Page 15, if you are so inclined. Enjoy!

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**Salvation**

It was a weird place. Cold. Numb. The snow that fell seemed particularly light, washed out. Unnatural. And it mocked him. Teased him, taunted him in an endless cacophony of words that wouldn't stop running through his head.

Fuck up. Faggot. Bitch. Whore. Wanton slut. Asking for it. Take it.

A pained whimper escaped his throat as he curled in on himself, if only by a margin. The wall, sideways, stared back at him. The snow was collecting at the foot of it, seeping into the cracks and making the brick blush red. It mirrored the snow beneath him. He cringed.

His hair was matted. He could see it splayed out around him like some cruel, broken halo. Clumped together with sweat, blood, snow, and... he wouldn't admit the last as he wiped the freezing evidence from his cheek. It took so much effort.

Francis wondered vaguely if he'd die out here, of the cold. Funny, when he'd been so unbearably hot only moments ago. Odd how it felt both like mere seconds and like hours since ... that.

The silence of his world was suddenly punctuated by a harsh laugh. Electric fear shot through him and curdled in his stomach.

"-faggot fucking deserved it."

"Probably wanted it."

"Disgusting little whore." the third man spat.

Tears began to bead up as the blond stared unseeingly at the wall before him. "Aren't they done? Haven't they had enough? Why won't they leave... leave me alone." He hated himself for crying. Just as weak as they had called him. He really couldn't stand up for himself. Maybe he did deserve their punishment...

Feebly, he reached out a hand, trying to gain purchase on the patchworked cobblestone. Maybe that's what had cut his forehead. Panting, he hauled himself into a half-sitting position, unable to suppress the mewl of pain that coupled the lancing stiffness of his muscles.

There was a sudden stirring as three men sprang to life, upending something out of sight, and sending it crashing in the gathering darkness. Then the little bit of lamplight that filled the alley flickered out as the space was filled by the three forms.

No. Not this. Not again.

"What's that, little queer? Haven't had enough yet?" one snickered, smashing a bottle against the wall and dragging the shattered end along the grout.

Francis paused, paralyzed with fear as he watched the shadow encase him. Felt the men cornering him from behind. Again. All he could hear was his heart beating desperately against his chest like a caged bird. He wondered morbidly if it too would just freeze and become stagnant, like the rest of the snowy landscape.

"Little cunt, guess you didn't learn your damn lesson."

He had, he guessed. He swore to never, ever be alone. To loathe and fear and despise it. To have a companion, no matter what cost or what humiliation it would be. Not that he had anything left to lose. No fragment of dignity to hold on to. They had dragged him by his hair, gagged, into the alleyway. Had thrown him against the walls, the trashbins, the road, until he was half conscious and his head was reeling and clouding over. Had fisted his hair in their hands so tightly that it tore at times until, was half-drunken mocking, they had cut it in horrid chunks.

Francis clung to the cape at his shoulders. The last remaining scrap of identity left to him. His fingers trembled. They would take this from him too, he knew it. It was frayed and tattered, stained with blood. His blood. But it was something to hold on to.

The hand descended like an icy vice. "Still crying because we made you look like a boy?"

Like he cared about that right now. It was a part of him, sure. But it would grow back. He would loathe it forever, but he could grow his hair back, just as it was. Because it was his identity. But there were other things they had taken from him that he couldn't ever get back. Silently, the tears slipped down his cheeks.

"You fuck up. Tricking us, acting like a girl, you little faggot."

"Nothing but a failure."

"Good for nothing slut."

This time, the blow was to the side of his head, and it knocked him several feet foreward into the snow. His cheek stung, and he could feel the angry rash rise as hidden pebbles dug into his skin, splitting it and making it bleed. He could taste it now.

A boot connected heavily with his hip, forcing him on his back. It was alright. It was already bound to be solid black by morning, seared with the handprints of three sinners. Even after the bruise would fade, Francis knew the true marks would never disappear.

A dead weight dropped on his abdomen as he was pinned, straddled, to the ground. Another pair of hands roughly caged his wrists together. It wasn't necessary. He wouldn't fight an uphill battle twice. Fingers. Cuffing his hair, snaking over his skin, through his clothes. Above, the sky was crying pure, white snowflakes. It wouldn't be long before he was staining it with Sin.

He could feel the torn remains of his pants slide back down his hips, and he shied away subconciously. The snow continued to fall, blind to his silent pleas.

He had to be completely naked now. Discolorations blossomed all over his skin. From greedy teeth, hands, hips. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his cape. He wanted it so badly, if nothing else, then to hide his shameful body. The tears threatened to flow faster.

The a scream. It was garbled, but full of the twisted passion of death. Above him, the man seized, staring ahead with wild eyes, finally fixing his gaze upon his victim before they glazed completely. The men howled in surprise, and, in a crazed rush of adrenaline, Francis scurried backwards from the scene, shivering in a terrified huddle against the observant brick wall.

"It's a fucking ARROW!" one of the men yelped, examining his fellow partner.

"What the fuck is tha-AUGH!" With a twang, a second arrow pierced the upraised hand of the other sinner.

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" a familiar voice rang. This time, it was tinged with malice. Francis whimpered and let the remaining energy seep from him. That voice. Had he truly sustained so much that he was hallucinating to protect what was left of himself? The tears fell as thickly as the snow, warm against his stinging face.

There was a pause, then the first of the two men laughed. "Who the fuck is this little punk?"

"That's really not relevant, now is it, puta?" the new voice said harshly. There was a swift slide of metal and leather, then the startled gasps of the two sinners. "I suggest you fucking run like the cowards you are."

Through his fading vision, Francis imagined he saw a glimmering sword cradling the jawline of the man who had restrained him, the man to his left backing away from the arrow aimed at his chest. Morbidly, it was a nice thought.

It was white. Sterile, but not cold.

"Am I dead?"

But there was a warmth, there, pressed against his side. Cautiously, he looked down to see Arthur curled up asleep against him. His personal Heaven sure was a nice place.

"Francis?" came a tentative call. Distantly, he turned towards the voice. Antonio stared at him with watery olive eyes, bangs shadowing his face even more than usual. A sheath sat at his hip. It was a nice place indeed.

Arthur stirred, blinking innocent, sleepy eyes up at him. They both seemed like angels.

"Where's Gilbert?" he finally rasped. His throat seized, hoarse from screaming. Even in Heaven, the trio had to be complete. There was a slight pause.

"He's on his way."

"That's good." Francis sighed in relief. There was a lapse of silence, then the gentle weight of Arthur climbing up to gingerly sit in his lap.

"Ne... Francis?" he asked shyly. "You'll be okay, right? We came and rescued you, just like in all the fairytales. 'Tonio said that we were knights, so it was okay to hurt those people. We saved you, right, like all the princesses?"

Something inside him winced.

"Yes, Arthur." he sighed at length. "Thank you... both of you. You were very... valiant."

"They're... gone... Francis." Antonio said at length, checking his words for the sake of young England. "You're safe now. They'll never hurt you again. They can't now." The despiration seeped from him, his hand carefully lacing with the unusually pale hand of his best friend. After a second, bruised fingers closed against him, accepting his plea to give comfort.

"It's okay now." Arthur smiled gently, still too innocent to understand, but still too intelligent to miss the half-dead look in the frenchman's eyes. He placed a small hand to Francis' chest, allowing his head to rest in the crook of the blond's shoulder. "Don't worry, okay? You're okay."

Francis gave a noncommittal sniff. He couldn't make the child understand. He didn't want to. He himself shouldn't even know the feeling.

"Really!" Arthur insisted, pushing gently with his hand. "Because you didn't give them this, did you?"

Francis blinked, for the first time truly spiraling out of his daze. "Quoi?"

"You didn't let them have your heart, and you didn't let them steal it either." Arthur looked down, a blush dusting his nose. "'Tonio said that they stole something important from you, but I don't really get it, but so long as they didn't take your heart, then you're okay, right? Cause... Cause then you can always still give it to who you wanna. No one can steal that from you."

Tears. They were familiar by now. But this time...

He wrapped his arms around the smaller boy, cradling him to his chest, and letting the tears fall freely, wordlessly. He could hear his heart beating, and somehow, that really was enough. A relieved smile broke over Antonio's face, and he climbed into the hospital bed alongside them, gingerly holding the pair against him.

"Doctor says you need to rest up for a bit." he whispered to his friend. "Says you'll be alright, but you'll need the time to heal. Just relax - we're here for you, Francis."

"Yeah." Arthur chimed in sleepily, curled comfortably within Francis' arms. "So while you're resting, we'll protect your heart, okay? Protect it forever..."

"It's okay," Francis whispered, the blessed feeling of love and safety washing over him and calling him to the soft banks of sleep. "because you guys already have a piece of it."

"Thank you."


End file.
